


one word.

by Icanwritesee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I eat hearts for funsies, John is So Not Good, M/M, Sorry again, Suicidal Thoughts, angst like woah, but it gets better swear, feel free to go after me, had to let it out sorry, might come up with the third chapter, post-TRF, sorry i had to, they're both not good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee
Summary: 'one word, Sherlock, that's all I would've needed!' one word. but which one?





	1. The Fall.

**Author's Note:**

> this little unhappy fic was breaking my heart and I had to let it out of my system. sorry. the language is awful, too. my apologies. I kinda needed to vent.
> 
> also, it's based on the headcannon I saw floating around tumblr nth time ago - what if Sherlock _did_ send John one word to let him know he was alive? would John still 'move on'?
> 
> hint: how could he?

 

 

**from drafts saved on John Watson's blog:**

  
it's been six hours and

 

NO

 

I  
can't  
take ittttt  
I shouldve

my falut

 

 

 

 

Goddddddddddd

I can't

 

 

*

No idea why I'm still here, writing this note of all things. I won't publish it, so no one will know just how fucked up I precisely am.  
it's been six days since I saw my best friend jump off the rooftop of St. Bart's hospital. I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to stop thinking about it, the sound of his body hitting the ground which made me feel sick even though I've seen people tragically lose their lives more times than I could count, both as a doctor and a soldier.  
But somewhere between realizing that it was _his_ blood that was everywhere and fighting for catching my own breath, I knew that that moment broke something in me that I'll never be able to fix again.  
By the way, I left Baker Street. Couldn't live there any longer, being surrounded by physical proofs of our lives as the clever detective and his idiotic sidekick that had the possibility of being around proper genius. The tiny bedsit I'm currently spending my time in now is more pathetic than the one I moved into after Afghanistan. This one is even more beige than the first one, and I'm starting to suspect it's making _me_ more beige day by day.

  
*

I miss him so much it's making the breathing impossible. I never thought I would miss his cutting remarks during the Bond movies, or his countless experiments conducted on our kitchen table, or him leaving feet beside my beer in our fridge.  
I miss him. I wish he knew it, just like he knew everything else about me.

 

sometimes the thought of joining him is almost impossible to silence.

*

  
Today I cleaned my gun and wondered how long would it take me to find him in the other world if I blew my brains out. Funny, that. I don't even believe in God. And yet, God was the first thing on my mind when I got shot. I asked Him to let me live for just a little more, to find my purpose in life.  
Ella would probably disapprove of all that. Good thing she can't read any of the drafts I've written so far. Shouldn't take much longer, the _I'm fine_ lies I sell on a daily basis every time Mike wants to grab a pint with me because he feels sorry for me. Suddenly everyone feels fucking sorry for me like I'm some sort of a charity case, like I _need_ their pity when the only thing I need, is for him to come home, doesn't really matter how.

*

  
I woke up to the sound of a text alert few hours before the dawn. An unknown number sent me a text containing all but single word:  
_  
Wait_.

  
\- okay. I will - I whispered to myself, feeling things beginning to settle down inside me.

 


	2. home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn problematic child, this chapter. but I hope you'll like it.  
> because how could I leave John like that.

_'...goodbye, John.'_  
_'...no. SHERLOCK!'_  
_'let me through, he's my friend!'_  
_'no! he's my friend, no... he's my friend...'_  
_'Jesus, Sherlock... God, no!'_

*

another nightmare.  
my body was still shivering violently when I woke up. it took me more than a minute to realize it wasn't real. which didn't necessarily mean it never happened.  
I rolled on my back, groaning softly at the sharp pang of pain that shot through me. the world outside, enveloped in darkness, slowly started to brighten and I could hear the faint sounds of activity on the market outside my window. my eyes wandered over the unfamiliar, impersonal hotel room, one of the long string of impersonal hotel rooms I occupied during the last two years. the only object that proved the room was lived in was my generic-looking travel bag that didn't fit more than set of clothes and first aid kit. I left it by the door, next to battered coffee table where Mycroft dumped manila enelope containing all the details of my Balkan mission.  
Sarajevo was the last stop on my long way back.  
tonight I was going to terminate the last cell of Moriarty's spider web, and after that I was going home. to John.  
and even now, on the verge of ending my mission, I was nervous as ever. I was _afraid_. what if Baker Street was no longer _home_? what if... my message was too late? what if he already moved on? the nauseating feeling rolled through my stomach.  
that thought alone kept me awake for months on end, that it could be too late for me to be _his_.  
and that one recurring nightmare on nights when I managed to turn off my mind for a while.  
I hear his voice, mostly. his normal, warm timbre changed into brokenly uttered syllables that would haunt me until I take my last breath. the way it broke when he saw me lying on the pavement in a puddle of fake blood. his unspeakable horror when I wasn't responding to him calling my name. sometimes I feel the last touch of his trembling hand when he tried to check my pulse, too. after that, there's nothing.  
  
*

in the end my impatience took the better of me and I became sloppy. and _Mycroft_ had to step in before it was too late. took him couple of hours to find and extract me. they managed to beat me up pretty badly first, but I paid no mind to my wounds, with a single coherent thought in my mind; that I was _free_.

  
three hours later I took a first breath of London air.

*  
  
I knocked on his door (address provided by Mycroft; how could I ever pay him back for all those favours?) with my heart in my throat and sandpaper in my mouth. there was no sound on the other side, but after a few heartbeats I heard some movement and the door slowly opened, showing tiny army doctor dressed in tattered St. Bart's' t-shirt and grey boxers, but not sleepy. conclusion: he was just going to go to bed.  
John grew a moustache and had tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before. even dressed in his nightwear, he was still easily the most beautiful person in the world even though the moustache was his worst idea ever.  
I cleaned my throat, but I found myself speechless for the first time in my life, while  John stared at me with wide eyes.  
'hello, John.', I managed to say after a long while. he clenched his left hand in a fist, and swallowed.  
'is this... is it really you?', he asked in a weak voice. I was only able to nod, expecting a punch. but the wonderful marvel that was John Watson surprised me once more. he took a step towards me, and before I could even wrap my mind around what was happening, he stood up on his tiptoes and met his lips with mine. of all the possible scenarios, this one was the least anticipated.  
I kissed him back with slight hesitance, not believing in my own luck, and soon I realized he was cradling my head in his hands like it was some priceless jewel to be guarded.  
'finally.', he murmured with a little sigh into my skin at the base of the throat, where he nuzzled. overwhelmed by the need to touch him now that I could, I put my arms around his body and hugged him closer to me, slowly breathing in his intoxicating smell that always made me feel home.  
my heart has never been better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
